


The cold chill of metal

by keysburg



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Gen, I Blame Tumblr, bucky hates his arm, how did bucky get there anyway, post winter soldier, pre ant-man end credits scene, probably only makes sense if you've seen the end credits scene, sorry about this, spoilery if you haven't seen the end credits scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:16:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysburg/pseuds/keysburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Bucky arrive in the circumstances of the post-credits scene shown after Ant-man?  I have a terrible suspicion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The cold chill of metal

He knew, even when he was dragging the blond man out of the river, that this thing wasn’t his. It didn’t belong to him and he didn’t want it. He knew even before that, maybe. Before that was so hazy… but he probably had always hated it. 

The museum answered the most immediate questions. His name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was supposed to be dead. For decades. The blond man on the bridge who called him Bucky, the man who saved him, who refused to defend himself against him, who he ended up pulling out of the river for reasons he didn’t understand: that was Steve Rogers. The name first conjured up a lot of memories of fighting. Some of that made sense: the museum exhibit said they fought in the war together. Some of it didn’t make any sense at all, not yet: the old, small version of Steve, fighting in an alley. The new, larger version, chasing him across a roof, probably recently. It was annoying that the more nonsensical memories seemed clearest, and the war was the haziest bit. He thought he remembered trudging through a snowy forest, cold and miserable, but it kept getting tangled up with waking up in the cryofreeze chamber. Shivering so hard his muscles cramped, coldest where this thing was attached. He remembered Steve and saw the faces of other men, the so-called Howling Commandos, and then they melted into unfamiliar faces, their uniforms into white coats, and then he was falling. Always he came back to falling into the cold snow, seeing only white and hearing a train in the distance.

Yeah, he definitely hated it before he dragged Steve from the river. He shivered thinking about the cryochamber, and how this thing seemed suck away warmth even after he was out and off on another mission. He hated that he had to wear long sleeves to always keep it covered now, no matter the weather. 

He couldn’t imagine not having it, since it seemed like it had always been there. He certainly used it without thinking about it, even though he hated it. He forgot it was there, that it wasn’t his. Then he did something: pulled on some pants, scratched an itch, rubbed his eyes… and felt the cold chill of metal against his skin. Forever alien, and wrong. It was inescapable, that this thing wasn’t his. 

He had always hated it, but he hated it more and more as the days went by and he slowly strung together more memories. Some of his missions had required use of computers, now he he used them at libraries and cafes to find out what he could. The internet was amazing. There was a surfeit of information, really. More than he had time to read while moving from place to place, but he got the gist. The world called Steve “Captain America”; Steve was apparently partially responsible for much of the information being available. He had taken down something called SHIELD to destroy Hydra. Hydra, that he knew. The museum said they fought against it in the war. Later he knew he did as it commanded, even if he never knew why. It hurt to think about Hydra, and it always made the thing feel heavy and cold again. 

Instead of thinking about Hydra, he used his training to move secretly, all around the world. He woke up at night with names of people and places swimming in his head. So he wrote them down and looked them up in the morning, and then visited the places. Some sparked nothing for him. His enlistment papers were part of the museum exhibit, they had listed his home address. But his block had clearly changed dramatically since he had been there last. It was nothing but recently renovated apartments, too many coffee shops, men in beards and square glasses and women with visible tattoos and everyone, just everyone seemed to have a baby on their hip, or wrapped up in a sling. It sparked no memories in him, only a kind of befuddlement. How much did people spend on coffee now? Other locations brought violent memories, but even violent memories were clues, and better than nothing. He might never know how many people he had assassinated under Hydra’s command. When names of people came to him he could search where they had died to match them to locations. When locations came he could search for bad things that happened there but he could never know which, if any, he was responsible for. The visit to Odessa was the most enlightening. Once there he remembered shooting a woman, a woman had tried to kill more recently. She fought with Steve, and the internet told him she was the Black Widow, a Natasha Romanov. The world must have changed more than he knew if Steve was fighting beside a Russian spy. 

So he moved around, taking trains and spending way too much time on boats. It was time consuming to move between continents when you couldn’t take a plane. He began to hate the smell of the ocean and the sight of waves, although he was starting to remember that he liked them as a kid. As he went he was certain of three things: he had been coerced to do terrible things, someone was following him, and he hated this thing more every day.

Someone was following him: well, two someones. Sometimes it was Steve. He wasn’t quite sure of all the reasons why Steve would be following him, even if the museum said they had been childhood pals. That was nice, certainly, but how could that justify chasing a man who tried to kill you halfway around the world? He was certain Steve wouldn’t hurt him, but he didn’t know how he knew that, and he didn’t want to meet him before he remembered why. The reasons were there, dancing just out of reach in his fractured memories.

The other person that was following him was Steve’s friend, the one with wings to make him fly and who fought like a soldier. The computers didn’t tell him anything about Steve’s friend for a long time, until after that disaster in Eastern Europe. But knowing his name was Sam Wilson didn’t really tell him much about the man he hadn’t already known: he was Steve’s friend, and he was following him because Steve wanted to find him, and he was damn good at it. He had almost succeeded, multiple times. Wandering around a city for days and days, looking around, criss-crossing his path to see things from different angles and waiting for something to click: this was not the best way to avoid someone who really, really wants to find you. 

Those three things were a lot. His soul carried the weight of the things he had done when commanded. His mind carried the weight of knowing he was pursued, and the responsibility for keeping him free. And his body carried the weight of this thing. As the days passed, his soul and mind grew heavier with every memory recovered and every close call when he barely managed to dodge Sam or Steve. And it made him resent this thing more and more. The burdens of his soul and mind he had earned, he probably deserved. This thing burdening his body - he hadn’t asked for it. Didn’t want it. And finally decided he should be rid of it. It would make things more difficult, to only have one hand. But it would be worth it to be free of one burden, this thing he hadn’t asked for and didn’t want. 

There wasn’t anywhere he could go for help with it. Probably the best way to get rid of it would be to cut it off slowly, but that wasn’t something he could do by himself. No, he’d have to find something that could tear it off quickly. Whatever happened after that, he’d finally be free of this thing, if nothing else. 

By the time he found the machine, he was more than ready to do it. It had made him hasty, obviously. He wasn’t sure if it was the machine’s condition or his haste that made the operation fail, but it didn’t matter. The outcome was the same. He was stuck. Trapped, by this thing he hated. Ironic, or maybe just pathetic. As he struggled to free himself, his hate swelled, and with it came determination. No, he wasn’t going to let this thing he didn’t ask for kill him. With his real arm, he got out his phone, and called the number he had gotten from the internet. He called Steve. Whatever his old friend wanted from him, it couldn’t be worse than letting this thing he hated kill him. 

He left a message with his location. And waited. And waited. He knew Steve would come, it was only a matter of time. He might be busy fighting another army of robots or destroying another intelligence agency, but he would come when he could. As he waited, he prayed Steve would get there before he died of dehydration. Before this thing that he hated killed him after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd write anything about Bucky. I blame the Winter Soldier fandom on Tumblr.


End file.
